sky,
    The fancy kindle,—­fingers fair
    That never closed on aught but air—­
    Hearts, that never heaved a sigh—­
    Wings, that never learned to fly—­
    Cups, that ne’er went table round—­
    Bells, that never rang with sound—­
    Golden crowns, of little worth—­
    Silver stars, that strew the earth—­
    Filagree fine and curious braid,
    Breathed, not labored, grown, not made—­
    Tresses like the beams of morn
    Without a thought of triumph worn—­
    Tongues that prate not—­many an eye
    Untaught midst hidden things to pry—­
    Brazen trumpets, long and bright,
    That never summoned to the fight—­
    Shafts, that never pierced a side—­
    And plumes that never waved with pride;—­
    Scarcely Art a shape may know
    But Nature here that shape can show.

    Through this soft air, o’er this warm sod,
    Stern deadly Winter never trod;
    The woods their pride for centuries wear,
    And not a living branch is bare;
    Each field for ever boasts its bowers,
    And every season brings its flowers.

D.L.R.

We all “uphold Adam’s profession”:  we are all gardeners, either practically or theoretically.  The love of trees and flowers, and shrubs and the green sward, with a summer sky above them, is an almost universal sentiment.  It may be smothered for a time by some one or other of the innumerable chances and occupations of busy life; but a painting in oils by Claude or Gainsborough, or a picture in words by Spenser or Shakespeare that shall for ever

    Live in description and look green in song,

or the sight of a few flowers on a window-sill in the city, can fill the eye with tears of tenderness, or make the secret passion for nature burst out again in sudden gusts of tumultuous pleasure and lighten up the soul with images of rural beauty.  There are few, indeed, who, when they have the good fortune to escape on a summer holiday from the crowded and smoky city and find themselves in the heart of a delicious garden, have not a secret consciousness within them that the scene affords them a glimpse of a true paradise below.  Rich foliage and gay flowers and rural quiet and seclusion and a smiling sun are ever associated with ideas of earthly felicity.

And oh, if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this!

The princely merchant and the petty trader, the soldier and the sailor, the politician and the lawyer, the artist and the artisan, when they pause for a moment in the midst of their career, and dream of the happiness of some future day, almost invariably fix their imaginary palace or cottage of delight in a garden, amidst embowering trees and fragrant flowers.  This disposition, even in the busiest men, to indulge occasionally in fond anticipations of rural bliss—­

In visions so profuse of pleasantness—­

shows that God meant us to appreciate and enjoy the beauty of his works.  The taste for a garden is the one common feeling that unites us all.